


Burn A Little Brighter

by GalaxyOHare



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Eventual Smut, Juvenile Detention, M/M, Medical Procedures, Origin Story, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Surgery, WIP, eventual consentual underage sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyOHare/pseuds/GalaxyOHare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Leonard Snart walked into the room Mick Rory knew he was gonna be trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hope

The first time Leonard Snart walked into the room Mick Rory knew he was gonna be trouble. Mostly, people don't hold his interest; they're dull, bland. But every once in a great while he sees someone who doesn't blend, someone who catches his attention, who burns a little brighter than the rest. And he fixates.

 

Snart was one of those people. A flicker of light out of the corner of Mick's eye, and there he was, cafeteria tray in hand, looking lost, looking vulnerable. He was small, smaller than most, and pretty. He made Mick feel funny in the same way that cute girls made him feel funny. A stirring in his gut that he determinedly didn't dwell on. He let out a small, “Hmph,” of disgust at his immediate urge to offer him a seat at his table, to offer his name, to offer his friendship. He hated when this happened, being drawn to people like a moth to flame, being eager. It felt pathetic.

 

He shoveled runny mac and cheese into his mouth with a spork, doing his level best to ignore the kid for the rest of dinner. He most certainly didn't listen to the others boys gossip about him and who his father was. His ears definitely didn't perk up at the mention of his name. He absolutely didn't mouth the words, “Leo Snart,” curious to feel the shape of them, desperate to commit them to memory. His heart didn't race at lights out when behind closed eye lids there appeared Leo's face, unbidden.

 

The feeling in his chest wasn't hope.

 

Certainly not.

 

* * *

  

The next day, he'd barely gotten back from breakfast when he heard it: the beginnings of a scuffle down the hall. The sharp squeak of shoes on the linoleum, raised voices, the rustle of clothing. He was busy trying to pry the safety off a lighter he'd swiped from a CO. It was surprisingly difficult to do without a knife, and he'd already bent his thumbnail backwards three times, hissing and sucking on his wounded finger each time before redoubling his efforts.

 

He could hear the hooting and hollering of the other boys gathering to watch the fight, but he was content to sit on his bunk, well away from the ruckus. It was none of his business, far as he was concerned. Out of sight, out of mind. Until a guy ran past the open door of his cell shouting to someone at the other end of the hall,

 

“Hey, come on, _come on_! The Snart kid's gonna _get it_ , yo!”

 

Mick froze. Suddenly every detail of the beatdown came into focus, rang loud in his ears: the breathless gasping, the dull, meaty thud of blows landing on flesh, the taunting laughter of more than one assailant. Kid was outnumbered. No time to think. He had to decide fast. _Shit_.

 

Sliding the lighter into his roomie's pillowcase, he stood, squared his shoulders and strode into the hall. When he saw what he was walking into, he couldn't help but smile. This was dangerous and stupid and he was gonna love every second of it. Cracking his knuckles as he approached, he counted six on one. Poor kid never stood a chance. He recognized at least one of the guys, Miller, nasty son of a bitch with a mean streak a mile wide. When Mick saw him pull something out of his pocket, he knew his time was up.

 

Miller never saw him coming; hit him with a haymaker just behind his ear and he went down like a sack of potatoes, crude shiv flying from his limp hand, skittering to a stop a few feet away. A toothbrush, of all things, sharpened to a point at it's end. Hopefully no one else would pick it up before the CO's arrived, but he didn't have time to worry about that. There were still five other guys to deal with and by the look of things, Leo wasn't gonna be much help from where he was laying in a crumpled heap on the floor, limbs curled protectively around his midsection. Mick didn't waste any more time than he had to sizing up the situation. He'd never been much for strategy, he was more of a punch now, ask questions later sorta guy.

 

He grabbed the nearest punk by the hair, two fistfuls, and pulled him face first into his own knee. It was gonna hurt like a bitch later, but it was effective; the guy's nose all but exploded upon impact and when he screamed, grabbing his face and rolling away, it sounded wet. The element of surprise was gone now, and the rest of the crew (two down four to go) rounded on him. The next guy to step into his space received a punch in the throat for his trouble, falling to his knees immediately, able only to wheeze, eyes wide, clutching at his neck.

 

Another of the assailants, a ginger, managed to land a blow square on Mick's jaw, stunning him just long enough for his blonde friend get him in a headlock. Mick twisted his body and delivered a devastating donkey kick to the inside of his attacker's knee, grinning wildly at the audible snapping noise as the headlock was released and Blondie cried out, promptly joining his friends on the floor. Before Ginger could avenge his fallen comrade, Mick swung his leg again, full arch, this time hitting home directly between his enemy's legs. Ginger was down for the count.

 

One left. A brunette, tall, skinny, brow knit in disbelief, sweating nervously; he held a shiv in his right hand. Mick's shoulders heaved with every breath, his eyes were saucers, his grin manic. The shiv was shiny with blood, probably chicken wire glass, probably sharp. They circled each other. Mick was only distantly aware of the crowd that had formed around them, the chanting and the jeers. They seemed far away, fuzzy, unimportant. He was in the zone. It was him and Skinny-boy. He had to focus.

 

Skinny-boy took a swipe when he was close enough. He had quite a reach on him, long arms, but Mick was fast. He jumped back, once, twice. Shiv missed him by inches both times. He was so busy looking for an opening that he didn't see the approaching CO's, didn't even notice them until he was tackled to the ground. He landed with a thud, arms out to brace himself against the fall, his left elbow taking the brunt of the impact. Pain sang through his arm and the wind left his chest with a an audible whoosh.

 

Before he'd had time to recover, his arms were being pulled behind him; he could feel the familiar bite of zip ties at his wrists. He willed himself to calm down, fought against the adrenaline rush that urged him to resist. He twisted his head toward Skinny-boy just in time to see him get a face-full of pepper spray. If he'd had the oxygen, he would have barked out a laugh. Serves him right, ganging up on a skinny little thing like Leo—shit, that's right, where _was_ Leo?

 

Mick craned his head in the other direction, smile gone, wild eyes searching for a glimpse of his potential new friend. There he was, same place he'd been when Mick had arrived. He had a better vantage point now, having joined him on the floor, and he could see why Leo had been clutching his stomach. He was bleeding, the stain on the front of his jumpsuit spreading as Mick watched. Leo's pretty eyes were vacant, half lidded. His hands, stained red, had gone limp. He'd passed out.

 

The last Mick saw of him was the shallow rise and fall of his chest before medical personnel surrounded him, blocking the view. Mick was hauled to his feet and shuffled away. He tried desperately to ignore the churning in his stomach and the sucking in his chest as he was marched towards solitary. Tried to ignore the fact that it felt a lot like panic, like helplessness, failure. Tried to ignore everything. The edges of his vision went fuzzy and soft, the sounds around him faded into white noise, his focus zeroing in with pinpoint accuracy on the floor in front of him. And just like that, he didn't care anymore. Just like that, he was numb.

 

* * *

 

The CO pushed him into the empty holding cell and he immediately lost track of time. First he sat leaning against the wall, but his hands were still zip tied behind his back, and he couldn't get comfortable. The adrenaline had long since worn off, exhaustion was setting in and his injuries were starting to throb. His jaw, his knee, and his elbow were the worst. He'd gotten lucky, six guys, two of them with shivs, and he'd managed to get away with only bruises.

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid; dumb ole Mick Rory, stickin' his nose where it don't belong. Should've minded his own. Should've let it be.

 

After shifting around for several minutes, he finally gave up and lay on his stomach, turning his face to the side, letting his cheek rest on the cool linoleum. He refused to consider the cleanliness of the floor, focusing instead on what he would do when he got back to his cell; if he got back. Some guys got permanently moved to solitary for fighting.

 

First he'd get his lighter back from Thompson, assuming the screws hadn't tossed their cell and confiscated it in his absence, which he knew was a possibility. Thompson would likely give it to him right away, if he still had it. He wasn't a small guy, but he was kind, mild mannered, more interested in books than showy displays of masculinity. Kept to himself mostly. Mick respected him. Maybe he could help him find something to pry that damn safety off the lighter, something better than his fingernails. Then he'd run his thumb over the wheel, smooth as butter, listen to the soft, sandpaper hiss of the flint as it brought the flame to life.

 

Over and over he'd watch it bloom, staring into it's delicate brilliance until the wheel was too hot to touch. All that power in such a small package, dangerous and beautiful and warm. Staring off into the middle distance he pictured it in his mind's eye, flickering and floating. Eventually his breathing calmed and slowed and his eyes slid shut. Laying on the dirty floor of a holding cell, dreaming of fire, Mick took a nap.

 

* * *

 

It was dark by the time someone came and got him. There weren't any windows, but he could tell. The halls were quieter, and there was just something different about the building at night, some kind of otherworldly quality that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Besides that, the lady CO that roused him from his sleep only ever worked night shift. She cut his zip ties and helped him up. His arms were asleep, and it didn't take long for the pins and needles to start. As soon as he moved, pain soared through his body, highlighting his bruises, and he groaned as he stood.

 

“You ok?” She asked, sounding more bored than concerned. Mick shrugged.

 

“Yea. Fine.” He muttered, apprehensive about where exactly she was taking him. His body was a mess and his mind was still muddled with sleep. His stomach growled. He ignored it and cracked his neck.

 

“Alright, walk to the end of the hall and stop at the door. Superintendent Simpson wants to see you.” He did as he was told, the guard following close behind him. She radioed for the door to be opened; there was a buzz followed by the clunk of a lock releasing. Pulling the door open, she gestured him through it, and they continued in that way down four more hallways, through three more doors until finally arriving in a place that felt more office than prison. There was a receptionist, cushioned chairs lining the wall, carpet, even a potted plant in the corner. The CO gestured for him to sit. He did.

 

“Judy, this is him.”

 

“Ok, thanks Sandra, I'll let him know.”

 

Mick stared at the stains in the carpet, slumped low in the chair, legs wide, knee bouncing nervously as he picked at the skin around his thumb. It was times like these he wished he was small, wished he could disappear. Disappearing was hard when you were 6'2” and pushing 200lbs.

 

He heard the the soft click and hum of a dial tone as the phone came to life, the quick sequence of beeps as the speed dial worked it's magic, the first few ring tones before the receptionist picked up the receiver and put it to her ear. Judy spoke in soft, clipped, polite sentences, and he learned nothing new about his situation by listening to her end of the conversation.

 

He could feel himself starting to panic again. Instead he tried to focus his attention on the potted plant. That was new. It wasn't long before he saw where the plastic had been fused at the joints and lost interest. Of course it was fake. _Nothing was meant to grow in here_.

 

“Mick?” A voice called, snapping him out of his rumination, “Mick Rory?”

 

“Ye-” His voice caught, dry from nerves and under-use. Clearing his throat, he tried again, “Yes? That's me.”

 

“Ok, follow me.” The man was tall, middle aged, thin with a pot belly, thinning brown hair atop his head, glasses low on his nose. He had a clip board in his hand, and his eyes were glued to it as he walked Mick down a hallway towards a back office. He held the door open, gesturing at a chair in front of a large brown desk, “Have a seat.” He said, eyes never leaving the page. When Mick was seated, the man let the door swing shut with a slow, hydraulic hiss and crossed the floor to his desk, setting down his clipboard, and removing his glasses before finally taking a look at Mick himself. “So--Mick. That was a very brave thing you did today.” Mick blinked at him. Whatever he'd expected, it wasn't that.

 

“What?” Was all he could muster.

 

“Because of you, a young man's life was saved. I've spent the better part of the day investigating the incident: reviewing security footage, interviewing witnesses, talking with my CO's and medical personnel, and from the information I've gathered it's clear to me that Leonard Snart very likely would have been killed if not for your intervention.”

 

“Wait, you mean, he's ok?” Mick felt his chest swell with emotion: hope, relief, joy. He did his best to keep a straight face. Most likely he failed.

 

“Well, he's in the hospital, but he's stable. He'll probably be there for a little while, but he'll have to come back when he's well enough. That's what I want to talk to you about. I'm not a huge fan of kids dying in my detention center, but I know my CO's can't be everywhere all at once. Leonard is going to need someone to look out for him when he returns. I think that someone should be you. You've already demonstrated a clear desire to protect him. Now I'm not going to pretend to understand that, seeing as you don't seem to have any prior affiliation with him, or with anyone for that matter, but I can't say I'm not grateful. If I make him your new roommate upon his return, and you promise to do your best to watch his back, I'll put in a good word for you with the parole board when the time comes. If you play your cards right you could be out of here in 18 months. What do you say, Mick Rory? Do we have an accord?”

 

Mick nodded slowly, eyes wide, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. As he was escorted back to his cell, he let the barest hint of a smile soften his features. Not so dumb after all, Mick Rory.

 

Not so dumb, indeed.


	2. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:
> 
> -Medical stuff  
> -Discussion of surgery  
> -Discussion of recovery after surgery  
> -Discussion of wounds and sutures 
> 
> It's definitely pretty tame, nothing too graphic, but I know I squicked myself out doing research for it, and if you can't abide medical talk, maybe avoid this chapter?

Leo's eyelids were very heavy, and there was something in his nose. What's more, he could feel tears streaming down his face in hot, wet waves, and a lump in his throat that ached terribly. He heaved in a breath, hitching and shuddered, like a drowning man coming up for air. All he could seem to focus on in his confusion was his mother.

 

Where was his mother?

 

He could see edges of her, glimpses, like in a dream behind closed eyelids that he lacked the strength to open. The sent of her skin was rich and warm in his nostrils: cocoa butter and Russian sage. Distantly he wondered why he was crying. He didn't know, but surely his mother would comfort him. His mother with her bright smiles and delicate hands, dusted with flour from the kitchen. His mother on her knees in the garden, up to her elbows in the earth, surrounded by blackberry lilies, cool, umber skin glowing in the morning light. His mother who danced with him in the living room, laughter like the tinkling of glass, sundress fanning as she spun. His mother who held him close and whispered how much she loved him.

 

_Where was his mother?_

 

“Mom?” He called weakly, his voice like gravel in his throat. His eyelids finally lifted just a fraction, but all he could see was bright light refracted through the tears. “ _Mom?_ ” He sobbed, more urgent this time.

 

“Hey there, Leo,” came a foreign voice, “It's good that you're awake, how do you feel?”

 

“Where's my mom?” He could feel panic rising in his chest. This was wrong. Something was wrong. Summoning his strength, he blinked away the tears as best he could, raising his hands to his face to wipe at his eyes. His arms were like lead, clumsy and aching. He felt something tug when he moved his hand. Looking down, he saw what looked like a tube taped to it.

 

“I'm sorry, kiddo, but your mom isn't here.” She said, obviously apologetic. And suddenly it all came back to him. His mother was gone, had been for a long time. No one had ever really told him where she'd gone or what had happened. There one day, gone the next. Her disappearance was shrouded in mystery and vagueries. He couldn't remember her face. He felt sick.

 

Afterward, the nurse said it was normal to throw up after surgery. Nausea was a common side effect of anesthesia. She gave him a pillow to hold and a barf bag, just in case he felt like it might happen again. Once he was more fully awake she removed the oxygen tube from his nose. He sucked on ice chips while he waited for the doctor. There was a guard posted outside the door. No one had come to see him. He tried to tell himself that he was glad.

 

Doctor Hastings was visibly baffled at not having an adult to talk to, but recovered quickly enough. Leo had been stabbed, that much he remembered, and had undergone emergency exploratory surgery to ensure that none of his organs had been perforated. Luckily the surgery had been negative, he hadn't incurred any internal injuries, and his recovery would likely be a quick one.

 

“How long?” Leo asked.

 

“Until you're fully recovered?”

 

“Until I have to go back. To Juvie.”

 

“Well, I'd like to hold you for observation for a few days, monitor your progress, make sure there aren't any complications, I'd say two, maybe three days. I've been informed that the detention center is equipped with a medical wing, and I'll recommend that they keep you there for a few additional days before allowing you to return to the general population. It's important that your body is given adequate time to recover before you return to your normal routine.” The doctor clicked his pen closed, sliding it into his breast pocket before tucking Leo's chart under his arm. “Do you have any more questions?”

 

“No.” There were probably things he should be asking, but he still wasn't all there. Mostly he was tired.

 

“Alright, if you do think of anymore questions, Nurse Roy will be available to answer them. You're going to need to get up and walk around as soon as you feel you're able, no solid food until tomorrow. I'll have them send in some paperwork on what you can expect going forward. All in all, Leo, everything looks normal. You were very fortunate, everything considered.” Dr. Hastings gave him a curt little nod and turned on his heel, depositing the chart at the door on his way out.

 

He didn't feel fortunate.

 

Nurse Roy was back a few minutes later to remove his catheter and help him out of bed. It was important, she said, that he move around a little, that it helped to prevent blood clots. After a few short, shuffling laps around the room, he returned to the bed, where he would remain for the duration of the evening. Whatever they'd put in his drip was doing it's job. He was out the second his head hit the pillow.

 

* * *

 

It had been three days since the fight and still no word on the Snart kid's return. Mick was starting to get restless. He spent his days on the bottom bunk with his back to the door, flicking his lighter, trying not to think too hard. It wasn't working.

 

The thing about attachments is they make you weak, vulnerable. He was already a target and he knew it. Being as big as he was, new guys might look to make a name for themselves by taking him out. As it stood now, nobody dared to, nobody had tried. He had a reputation. People knew he had a short fuse and a mean right hook. If word got out that he'd developed a soft spot for some kid, they might just take a shot at him. He let his head drop back against the pillow in frustration, rolling his eyes, a heavy sigh releasing the tension in his chest.

 

Maybe he needed to rethink this whole thing. Maybe it was a bout of temporary insanity. He'd spent all of forty-five minutes in the same room with the kid. He didn't know jack shit about him. What if he wasn't actually interesting at all? What if he was a rat? Worse, what if he _was_ cool, but didn't want anything to do with Mick? What if he thought he was dumb? What if he laughed at him?

 

This was getting him nowhere. He raked his hands through the shock of brown hair atop his head and down his face, growling at the headache he'd begun to develop, resolving to put the issue out of his mind.

 

“You ok over there?” Thompson asked, closing the door behind him, book in hand.

 

“Yea.” Mick rumbled, less than convincing. “Where you been?”

 

“Library.” Thompson said, climbing into the top bunk, “Speaking of, I've got some news you might be interested in.”

 

“I'm listening.”

 

“Word on the street is Snart's on his way back, if not already in the building. He'll be in medical for a while, so you're still stuck with me for a few more days.”

 

Mick grunted in response. He very pointedly ignored the way his stomach did a back flip. So much for putting it out of his mind.

 

“Say, Mick, why'd you do it, anyway? Why'd you help that guy?” Thompson asked.

 

“Aww, you know me,” Mick said with a toothy grin, “I just like to hit people, punch stuff.”

 

“Sweetheart deal you got out of it though, Superintendent going to bat for you. You're a luck son of bitch, Rory, I'll tell you that.”

 

“Yea, I guess so. Anyway, my shift's about to start,” he said, standing, offering his fist to Thompson, who bumped it with his own without looking up from his book, “I'll see ya.”

 

“Yea, see ya.”

 

He rolled his lighter into the waistband of his boxers before opening the door to their cell. Keeping his eyes to the floor, he made his way to custodial. Seemed to him the hospital wing was overdue for a good mopping, and he was more than happy to volunteer.

* * *

 

 

The rest of Leo's hospital stay was uneventful. Some guy came in, took blood. Doctor Hastings never made a reappearance, but the nurses were always in and out, checking his vitals, encouraging him to take walks around the hospital, the guard always following close behind. The food was atrocious.

 

Nurse Roy showed him how to do breathing exercises to prevent pneumonia, and walked him through the packet of aftercare information. Most of it didn't matter, as he wasn't going to be administering his own medication or changing his own bandages, but she took extra time to make sure he knew the signs of infection and other potential complications that could occur. He was admittedly a little embarrassed that she'd been there to witness his earlier emotional outburst, but she was very kind and thorough and he appreciated that. When all was said and done, he was sad to leave.

 

One of the detention center doctors came to collect him, two guards flanking them as they made their way to a white van in the parking garage. They didn't cuff him, for which he was grateful. He'd been given a Percocet with breakfast, but he was still a little sore. He felt every bump in the road.

 

By the time they reached the Central City Juvenile Detention Center, he was almost grateful. He just wanted to be back in bed. Before he could take a nap he had to have lunch, take another Percocet, and have his bandage changed. First time he'd seen his sutures, it conjured up images of pirates. The scar was gonna look pretty badass. There was a small puncture wound, and around it, a curved incision from the surgery. The stab wound itself didn't even need stitches, apparently it would heal better without them. Nurse Roy had said it would be closed up in a little over a week.

 

Finally, after being poked and prodded and fed and medicated, he was led to a room lined with beds on either side, and allowed to lay down. As soon as he did, he locked eyes with another patient from across the room. It was one of the boys who attacked him. The guy's nose was in a splint, he had two black eyes, bruising that reached his cheek bones, and a split lip. He did not look happy. Leo couldn't have suppressed his smirk if he wanted to.

 

“Problem?” Leo asked, not bothering to hide his amusement. The other boy dipped his head and averted his eyes, angry, but unwilling to engage further.

 

Not for the first time, Leo let his mind wander back to the incident. He remembered most of what went down. He'd left his cell to go for a walk around the common area, see what he could see. The group of older boys had surrounded him, and he'd never been able to keep his big mouth in check. It was always getting him in trouble at home, and he guessed Juvie was no different. He was gonna have to work on that.

 

At first it was just fists and feet. In retrospect he should have just taken his beating lying down. Instead he'd hissed, “That all you got?” And just as he'd felt the blade stick him in the side, he saw him: the guy who had come to his rescue. He was a mountain, tall and muscle bound, green eyes flashing and wild as he picked off the attackers one by one. Leo had no idea why he'd done it. In fact, he was more than a little apprehensive about the whole thing.

 

An ally wasn't a bad thing, but an ally he couldn't make sense of made him nervous. If he didn't understand someone's motivations, he couldn't predict them. If he couldn't predict them, he could be surprised by them, and Leo didn't like surprises.

 

“You still in here just for a broken nose?” Leo asked. It seemed fishy. The guy scowled.

 

“Your _friend_ gave me a concussion. They want me in here for rest and observation. Listen, man, just tell him it's cool, alright?” he said, his voice hushed and fearful, pleading. “We got the message, loud and clear. No hard feelings, ok?” Leo just furrowed his brow, pursed his lips, and gave him the side eye of the century.

 

“Yea,” he drawled, “We'll see.” Just as he was about to settle down into the pillows for his long awaited nap, he glanced out the clinic window into the hall.

 

There he was: his rescuer, standing stock still, with what looked like a mop in his hand, full on staring, at Leo. They locked eyes for a moment, Leo curious, the other guy seemingly mortified at being caught. Slowly and without breaking eye contact, Leo raised his hand in a little wave.

 

The spell was broken. The mystery man's face immediately turned a fire engine red, and he spun on a dime, walking away as quickly as he could without actually running. This shocked a quiet huff of laughter out of Leo. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he did like surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like two icebergs in a sea of molasses, they're creeping towards one another. Sorry, I know there's not been much interaction between the two yet, we'll get there next time. I want to say thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos on the first chapter, you guys are such a blessing.

**Author's Note:**

> This is such a WIP. Idek, man, I'm so sleep deprived and this pairing is slowly killing me. I've had this in my head for a while and I needed to start getting it out of my system. Tbh, I haven't written anything in like, six or seven years. It's been even longer since I've written fanfiction (like, over a decade). I'm rusty. This first chapter is very Mick-centric, but POV will likely switch back and forth between the two as this progresses. Please feel free to point out any errors either grammatical or in the content, I'm all about constructive criticism, help me be better. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go sleep for one million years.
> 
> (P.S.: when I put slow burn in the tags, like, I mean slow burn. slow burn is my jam. i'm so sorry.)


End file.
